


Hamish William Holmes - Just, If You're Looking For Baby Names

by radvera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:04:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radvera/pseuds/radvera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's no secret that Sherlock and John are two halves of the same neurotic, brilliant, annoyed, (but ultimately, in love) whole. Which is why they decided to adopt a child, Hamish. But even with Sherlock's astonishing intellect and John's exceptional understanding of those adorable ordinary people, raising a child between the two of them might prove more difficult a task than anticipated - especially when he's turning out to be a proper genius, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hamish William Holmes - Just, If You're Looking For Baby Names

"Father," Hamish's voice called out from the couch, where he'd previously been sitting, immersed in what seemed to be an important government file Sherlock had apparently stolen from Mycroft.

"Yes?" John and Sherlock said in unison as the latter quickly rushed out of the kitchen where he'd been preparing a cup of tea to cling to the wall, staring at Hamish. John smiled at Sherlock's urgency; Hamish had been their adoptive son for eight months, and Sherlock still came running whenever the boy called, doting on his every whim.

Sherlock glanced over at John's more-than-a-little-smug expression, and quickly muttered, "Shut up," at him before turning his attention back to their child. John buried his smile in the newspaper.

Hamish giggled at them. "No, Mr. Watson, I meant _Holmes_!" John folded his newspaper in his lap, all the better to see the boy. He had light, curly hair that clung to his head and bounced when he laughed, or when he climbed up on top of furniture with Sherlock. His eyes, a deep, soft brown, seemed much too wise for his young age - he _was_ only 11 years old, and had celebrated his birthday recently. Just like Sherlock, he was truly a child at heart - and, just like Sherlock, he was turning out to be what Sherlock would call a _proper_ thinker - a genius.

"You can stop calling us _Holmes and Watson_ , Hamish," Sherlock said, swiftly pulling up a wooden chair to sit next to John and alighting in it dramatically. His blue silk robe flew and billowed like a vigilante's cape and settled slowly as Sherlock crossed his legs, pressed his hands together, and touched his forefingers to his lips in his 'thinking' position.

Hamish, mind working at a million miles an hour as usual, held up the file he'd been reading. "Is this _really_  what Uncle Mycroft plans to do at the parliamentary meeting?"

Sherlock waved a hand, as if declaring Mycroft's plans too unimportant to think about. "Ludicrous, I know."

John furrowed his brow and looked at Hamish and Sherlock, both of whom immediately assumed an innocent disposition, avoiding John's gaze. "What? What's Mycroft planning on doing at parliament?"

"Like I said, John, ludicrous. Therefore, unimportant." Sherlock said quickly, then sneaked a wink at Hamish, whose face visibly strained to return the wink.

"Hamish," John said, pointing at him with the newspaper. "If either of you-" he corrected, threateningly pointing the newspaper at Sherlock as well, "get into trouble with the British government, there'll be hell to pay with Mycroft, and then when you get home, there'll be hell to pay with _me_."

Sherlock shot him a look that conveyed a clear message: _Oh, don't pretend you aren't in love with that kind of thing._

"You'd have to come along, though, Mr. Watson," Hamish said intelligently. "Mr. Holmes needs you. I'll just be the...the..." he thought, trying to remember the word.

"Confidante?" John suggested, struggling to hide his laughter.

"Yeah, the confidante."

John looked over to smile at Sherlock, whose face was red as a rose from the very moment Hamish had said _Mr. Holmes needs you._ "What a surprise, Sherlock, that he's already thinking like you."

"Yes - well," Sherlock said, still blushing profusely. He glanced over at John briefly, and in those two seconds promised John wordlessly a considerable number of kisses that night. John half-wished the day was over. Sherlock turned back to Hamish, ending the eye contact early. He stood up and strolled in Hamish's direction, admiring his wall covered in maps of London and his 'rats,' his eyes and ears all over the bustling city. "Well, John, let's hope he turns out more like _you_ instead. And, Hamish - you don't have to call me 'Mr. Holmes.'"

Hamish, however, had missed Sherlock's last remark, since he was once again busy sifting through Mycroft's files, muttering to himself about poor diplomacy.

John beamed. "No use in it, Sherlock," he said, watching Hamish in amazement. "He's almost as efficient as you when it comes to meddling."

Sherlock nodded at John and smiled at Hamish, who looked up briefly and returned the smile - but just as quickly, both faces fell and both cocked their heads, listening for something. After a moment, Sherlock sighed defeatedly, borderline whiny, and Hamish tensed up with what appeared to be excitement.

"What is it?" John asked. He was rather tired of having two geniuses in his home instead of just one. Lucky he loved them both from the depths of his heart, or he'd have gone mad by now.

Sherlock strolled towards the door, laying one hand on the doorknob. "Her Majesty's paying us a visit," he said curtly, making a face at John. He opened the door. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said irritatedly, walking into the flat, his umbrella swinging at his side. "For once in your life, can you act like an adult? Where are they?"

"Where's what?" Sherlock pretended.

Hamish bound into Mycroft's view, and then nearly knocked him over with a hug. "Hello, Uncle Mycroft!"

"Oh!" Mycroft said in surprise. "Hello, child." He lay one hand tentatively on the child's shoulder, as if he wasn't sure how Hamish would react to it. He scoffed at John, who was raising an eyebrow amusedly. Sherlock watched, obviously annoyed with Mycroft, as well as with the fact that Hamish seemed to inexplicably adore him.

"It may serve you well to call before you pay someone's flat a visit," Sherlock hissed distastefully at his brother. _  
_

"It may serve you well to cease giving me reasons to make regular appearances," retorted the British government.

"Please don't stop visiting, Mycroft," came Hamish's agonized voice, still muffled in Mycroft's suit.

"It's you I come to visit, not Sherlock," Mycroft assured him, pushing him gently away. Hamish went to go get Mycroft's documents, and handed them to him.

"That's not a very good plan," Hamish said simply as Mycroft took back the papers.

Mycroft cocked his head. "Beg pardon?"

"The trick of diplomacy," Hamish said, quoting an article he'd read directly, "is to always have the others under your thumb. You have to be ready for whatever can come of the agreement. This agreement too wide a range of ... of ..."

"Variables," John finished enthusiastically. Luckily, Mycroft's venomous look hadn't forced John to cast his eyes downward, because he caught a glimpse of an impressed smile from Sherlock - the rarest of them all. Though, not quite so rare, ever since they'd adopted Hamish.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at both John and Sherlock before smiling semi-warmly at Hamish. "Well, perhaps you and I can have a chat sometime about the security of the free world." He seemed, however, to show too much emotion to his liking just then, because he straightened himself up and put on a stoic face once again.

"I've got to run," he said, turning briskly on his heel and walking out of 221B, swinging his umbrella at his side. He paused in the doorway, however, to turn briefly to Sherlock and ask under his breath, "When is Hamish's next birthday?"

"Brother mine; he just had one." Sherlock's face curved into a smile. "You don't actually _want_ to get him gifts, do you?"

"It's what uncles are supposed to do," Mycroft argued, then resumed walking out of the doorway and down the stairs.

"Hamish," John said. He'd begun to love his middle name after they'd named him that. Although he'd never admit it, he was glad Sherlock convinced him it was a good name. "How'd you know that was Mycroft before Sherlock opened the door?"

Hamish laughed, and bounded over to sit on John's knee. "You can hear his umbrella on the hardwood floor when he comes up the stairs," he explained.

"Oh, right," John said, entranced. How could Hamish live with Sherlock for eight months and already be deducing just like him, while John had been living with Sherlock forever and married to him for a year and still not recognize even some of his more elementary deductions?

"You'd have heard it, too," Hamish said, as if he'd read John's mind and was trying to make him feel better.

"You'll have to remember, Hamish," said Sherlock, putting his hands in the pockets of his silk robe, "John doesn't observe much."

"Sherlock-" warned John, shooting him a dangerous look that made Hamish laugh and Sherlock freeze.

"Well, John, if you'd have let me finish, you'd have heard me say, 'John doesn't observe much, except for the things that matter.'"

Hamish smiled. "You're right, Dad," he said, nodding at Sherlock, whose mouth instantly fell agape. Hamish kissed John's cheek briefly, then bound out of view again, towards his room.

"He called you 'Dad.'"

"Yes, I - yes."

John cocked his head, smiling. "How are we feeling about that?"

Sherlock's bottom lip trembled almost imperceptibly. He quickly straightened himself out, only to say, "I'm glad."

"Mmhm."

John stood up to go fetch the tea, which had long since been ready. Sherlock followed him into the kitchen, making an observation on the way: "He's right, you know, the umbrella thing _was_ rather obvious."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Don't tell me your hearing is slipping already, John. Do you need a hearing aid?"

"I said, _shut up_ , Sherlock."

"Honestly, now, you'll have to stay home from the parliamentary heist if you're going to be wandering around, not hearing people sneaking up behind you, John."

While he was talking, one hand landed on John's shoulder, the other on the side of his face, Sherlock's thumb stroking across John's cheekbone. John laughed and put both hands on Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer as their lips met and they sighed softly into each other's mouths. Their chuckles turned to soft, sweet kisses, their lips fitting together like pieces of a desperately unfinished puzzle.

When they pulled back enough to speak, Sherlock whispered quietly against John's lips: "I rather like the name 'Hamish.'"

"Yeah, Sherlock," laughed John. "Yeah. I love him, too."


End file.
